Missing Gaps
by Hunni8unni333
Summary: a gap filler for "Such Sweet Sorrow"


**Missing Gaps**  
  
**Rating:** G   
**Category:** Jinter/angst   
**Disclaimer:** Although I wish I do, I don't own Noah or Ming Na.   
**Author's Note:** MISSING GAPS will be a series of gap fillers, hence the title Missing Gaps and will not change the plot of ER in any significant way.  
  
Happy Reading!  
  
[Such Sweet Sorrow] Season 6, Episode 20 --- When Carter almost kills a patient by giving her a medicine that she already told him she was allergic to, Jing-Mei suspects something is wrong. Carter lashes out at her and leaves for the bathroom to cry. Jing-Mei goes to Mark to tell him that she thinks something is wrong with Carter. This gap filler takes place right before Jing-Mei talks to Mark. What happens if she had followed Carter into the bathroom?   
  
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My eyes follow his every movement as he runs down the hallway. Any other day, I would be tagging behind him, nagging him for details about his mishap. But now my feet are rooted to the ground, dumbfounded by what had just happened. This isn't just any mishap. This isn't John being his silly self and missing an obvious dianosis. No this is much more. Or maybe it is much less because it isn't even John at all.   
  
I see him turn the corner towards the direction of the men's bathroom and only when I hear a door bang open - which I assume to be John fleeing into the bathroom - do I snap out of my trance. I start walking towards the bathroom and soon break into a jog, my mind only full of concern for my friend.   
  
Rounding the corner, I can hear small mumbles coming from the men's bathroom. They turn into distinct sobs, like that of a child. My heart flinches from hearing John like this and as I poise my hand on the door, ready to push it forward, I freeze. Am I ready to see whatever would meet my eyes? Yes I am. For John, I know I am.   
  
I push the door open tentatively and peer inside. The sobs instantly become strangled, as if he wants to shut himself up so no one would be able to find him. But he continues gasping. I walk to the very last stall, the one with a shut door and I knock softly.   
  
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"John?" Her gentle voice carries into the stall. Gentle Deb's voice. I hear the concern, the love, and I know she would never judge me, never ridicule me. But I push it away because I know the truth.   
  
"John? Are you in there?" She persists and I know that she will not be going away any time soon. Still I sit there on top of the toilet, staring at my leather shoes and watching my teardrops leave stains on them.   
  
I hear some scruffling and her head appears. She crawls in through the space beneath the edge of the door and I find myself staring at her as she kneels by my feet. "John? Is everything okay?"   
  
My head is spinning. My eyes continue staring at the floor, and my emotions gush out as teardrops, each seemingly huger than the one before. Her hand reaches up to brush the tears away and I coil back. Hurt washes over her face, but she immediately blinks it away. I wish I can do that too. Just blink away all the suffering and everything would be okay again.   
  
"John, do you want to tell me what's happening?" Her voice is louder now, so as to make herself heard over my cries. But yet that gentleness remains. With Deb, it never seems to go away. I push it away though because I know the truth.   
  
She leans herself against the door and I can almost feel her sigh in defeat. But she still does not go away. She will never go away. "We'll just hang out here for a while then."   
  
Still I push it away because I know the truth.   
  
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I can see he is hurting inside, anguish consuming him up, gnawing away at him until there is nothing else left but a hollow shell. I can see it because I know it. Because I've felt that before too. It was more than ten years ago but the wound is still there, still bleeding. I am still healing, and I know it will take John just as long to heal.   
  
But he can't begin to heal yet. Not until he acknowledges that there is something to heal and I know he is still in denial. Even when he is sitting on top of a toilet with nothing but tornmented cries coming from him, he is in denial. Of course that's the way it goes as I remember my therapist saying, "Not until you hit rock bottom..."   
  
His tears continue falling, and soon I can feel sobs rising up in my own throat. It kills me to see my friend - my only friend - hurting so much. I am powerless to help.   
  
Oh, John, why are you doing this to yourself? Why are you so stubborn?   
  
I blink my tears away, fighting to keep them harbored. God knows, we don't need two doctors bawling in a bathroom. I sit and I wait.   
  
Ten minutes pass and his sobs begin to die down. "John," I start tentatively, "do you want to talk?"   
  
He hunches his back and buries his head in his laps. He is telling me to go away, but I don't. I won't.   
  
I need to get him to talk, to open up and let out all the repressed and anguished feelings. So I start first.   
  
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"I can't know what you're feeling right now, John, but I can imagine it."   
  
I scoff at her inside my mind. I flare up for an instant, angry at her for even suggesting such a ludicrous thing. The anger fizzles out failry quickly though, yet I am relieved. I am relieved I can feel something other than the hollow shell I've been living in.   
  
She starts speaking again, and I just want to push it away. But then I stop as the reality of what she says hits me.   
  
"I used to be addicted to caffeine pills."   
  
My mind snaps to attention at that, but my head remains buried in my laps. Her gentle voice continues. "It was so long ago, way before we meet. And things were happening in my life, things that I couldn't deal with. So I took the easy way out. Those pills landed me in the hospital."   
  
"I almost died, John."   
  
The frank honesty of that statement is more than I can handle. I can feel my tears falling again, but I fight to keep them away. Finally I feel composed enough and I look at her.   
  
Gentle Deb. Even her face is etched with gentleness. But I push it away because I know the truth.   
  
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There, I've said it. I've confessed the God awful secret I've been hiding for years. The one my father refers to as "dirty laundry."   
  
I look at John, hoping that my confession will spur him to talk. He finally moves and looks in my eyes. My heart rejoices, but very soon, it goes away.   
  
He starts to speak, the voice coming out cold and emotionless. "Why are you telling me all this?"   
  
"John," I begin, "I was so stupid for taking those pills. I could've gone for help and faced my problems but instead I chose to give up. I don't know what exactly it is you're going through, but I do know that I - or anyone for that matter - can help you get through it. If only you'd let us."   
  
"I don't need help." His face remains as cold and emotionless as his voice.   
  
"But -"   
  
"I am fine." His voice is still cold, but I can hear emotions. "I don't need your fucking help."   
  
He's... he's angry.   
  
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Deb's face flinches at my words. I want to apologize, but I don't know how to.   
  
"What do you think I am, Deb?" I bark at her. "Bipolar? Or that I'm doing drugs?"   
  
She looks at me, obviously unsure of how to answer.   
  
"I don't understand why you're so worried. I'm doing everything that I'm supposed to."   
  
"You're not being John."   
  
I snap at her. "Lucy died, Deb. And if you think I should be frolicking in a field, then you must have some problems. You don't think it's normal for a guy to be unhappy about someone's death? Or do you have problems with a guy that cries?"   
  
She shakes her head. "That's not what I mean, John. It's -"   
  
"Forget what you mean, Deb." I stand up abruptly, surprising her and she falls back. "I don't need help."   
  
I open the door and step over her kneeling body away from the confines of the bathroom stall. "I. Am. Fine," I say, emphasising my words. I throw one last look at her and I turn to leave.   
  
I try to push away the gentleness in her face, but it still lingers in my mind. I push harder, though, because I know the truth.   
  
I'm not worth it.   
  
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When the door closes, I am left alone in the men's bathroom. I am staring at the toilet seat where John was sitting and my thoughts are rambling at a hundred miles per hour.   
  
"Just follow him around for a few days and see how's he doing."   
  
"Forget about it. It's probably just like he says."   
  
"He needs serious help."   
  
"You can't handle this all by yourself."   
  
I only agree with the last thought. I'm not a therapist. I'm not a counselor. I know how the body works, but not the mind. I need to tell someone, someone who will know what to do.   
  
I stand up and leave the bathroom, my eyes searching for Dr. Greene.   
  
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